


What I Did For Love

by the_100_sin_bin_1985



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Everything Hurts, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, Incest, McCreary's Shock Collars, Mommy Kink, Parent/Child Incest, Psychological Torture, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-18 05:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17574680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_100_sin_bin_1985/pseuds/the_100_sin_bin_1985
Summary: McCreary gives an imprisoned Clarke and Abby two options: either he fucks one of them and forces the other to watch, or they fuck each other.  Neither can bear to let him hurt the other, so they agree to his twisted demand . . . not realizing that the REAL torture is having to live with the knowledge of how good they made each other feel.





	What I Did For Love

**Author's Note:**

> from the 2019 kink meme! 
> 
> ORIGINAL PROMPT: "Abby is forced/coerced to have sex with her own daughter by ALIE or McCreary (or whoever the writer deems a plausible agent). BP for them both being secretly super into it. BBP if they are being watched."
> 
> Warning for all you lovelies that this fic is a LOT darker than most of the stuff I write - I mean, on the one hand, everyone comes a lot and it's all about how much they love each other, but on the other hand, it is 100% pure dubcon incest at the mercy of McCreary's shock collars, and there is no way around the grimness of that setup. As always, be mindful of your own triggers and know that I won't judge you if you skip past this one. I considered not posting this fic here at all, because I know it's kind of intense and extreme, but I get so many comments on other fics like "I Spy" and "Just Like Mom Likes It" where people are asking for sexy Clarke/Abby content in those settings that I wanted to offer something for those readers. I also think that there can be a lot of shame around really dark kinks and a lot of fear in expressing a desire to explore that in the realm of fantasy, and ultimately I didn't want to not post something just because I was afraid of getting yelled at. Out of caution, I did set higher-than-usual restrictions on this one - at the moment it can only be read by registered users and I'm moderating all comments - and I apologize if that causes inconvenience for enthusiastic readers. At some future point I might take those down, but for now I wanted to make sure that I was protecting a little safe space around this particular fic for anyone who wants to read it.
> 
> I know this is an odd place for a thank-you, but I just wanted to say to everyone who has ever read one of my fics that your readership and comments and kudos mean a lot to me and it has made me a braver, smuttier writer to know that there are readers willing to go to all these crazy places with me.
> 
> Okay, that's all, end of note, BRING ON THE ANGST

Clarke is startled awake by the sound of the cell door opening and closing again, and the movement of bodies near her in the darkness. She sits bolt upright, scrabbles backward to brace herself against the wall, the metal of her shock collar clanging against metal and reverberating through her skull.  
  
He hasn’t touched her yet, but any moment . . .  
  
But McCreary hasn’t come for Clarke. He’s brought someone else with him.  
  
“Easier to keep an eye on you both when you’re in the same room,” he sneers, dragging a chair out of the corner and dropping casually into it, giving the huddled shape on the floor a mild, dismissive kick. “I’ve had it up to my neck with fucking Griffins.”

He taps the wall panel and the room is flooded with harsh, too-bright light, bringing tears to Clarke’s eyes. She squints, shakes off her stupor, and his words finally get through.  _“Mom,”_ she exclaims, dropping to the ground, wrapping her arms around the shaking figure, pulling her upright into a seated position. “Mom. Mom. It’s me. It’s okay. You’re okay.”  
  
Abby collapses against Clarke’s shoulder, limp and trembling, as though she’s barely conscious, but her voice as she whispers in Clarke’s ear is keen and alert.  “Madi’s safe, that’s all I know.” Her tone is low, rapid, urgent. “Echo and Raven have her. I think she’s with Kane and Diyoza. They took half McCreary’s men and he’s gone off the deep end. We have to be careful.”  
  
Clarke gives the ghost of a nod while stroking her mother’s hair, face carefully expressionless. Abby’s wearing a shock collar too, for the first time, and the sight of it makes Clarke’s entire body cold with rage.  
  
_How fucking dare he._  
  
If Kane were here, they might have to duke it out between the two of them as to who got to kill McCreary first.  
  
“See, now, you get it,” says McCreary lightly, leaning back in his chair. “The parent/child thing. Both of you, you’ve each got a kid. Makes you protective. We’re all on the same page here.”  
  
“For the last time,” spits Abby, “I don’t know where Diyoza is.”  
  
“Sure you do,” McCreary says easily. “Your husband’s with her. Clarke’s kid’s with her. Plus however many of your little friends are running around in the forest. They’re all together somewhere, and you know where they are, and you’re going to tell me.”  
  
“She doesn’t know,” Clarke snaps at him, “leave her alone.”  
  
“She absolutely fucking does,” counters McCreary, “and she’s either gonna tell me, or she’s gonna stay locked up here in the brig with you where neither of you can be as big a pain in my fucking ass as you’ve both been so far.”  
  
“Runs in the family,” mutters Abby, pulling back from Clarke’s arms far enough to look McCreary straight in the eye, seething with defiance, and that’s when Clarke first notices the dusky purple-gray flush of bruises on both her mother’s arms, and one on her temple.  
  
“I’m okay, baby,” Abby says immediately, reaching for Clarke to keep her from surging to her feet and attacking McCreary where he sits. “I’m okay. He grabbed me, and I hit my head when he carried me onto the ship. It’ll heal.”  
  
“She _helped_ you,” Clarke hisses at McCreary. “She saved your men. She was supposed to be safe with you.”  
  
“She made that deal with Diyoza,” McCreary reminds her, “and Diyoza’s not here.”  
  
“For the last time,” Abby says to him, leaning back against the cold metal wall of the brig and closing her eyes, “I don’t know where they are. So what do you want from me?”  
  
“She’s carrying my baby,” McCreary reminds them, voice cold, eyes blazing. _“Mine._ She stole him from me, and you helped her. You came between me and my child. So I’m going to do the same to you.” He rises from his seat, the black box of the shock collar switch in his hand. “Time for Clarke to learn a lesson about watching a parent suffer,” he says coolly. “Abby, take off your clothes.”  
  
“Don’t you _fucking_ dare,” Clarke roars at him, moving swiftly to shield her mother with her body as McCreary advances. “Don’t you lay a _finger_ on her.”  
  
“Clarke, honey, don’t,” Abby whispers frantically, “he’ll use the –"  
  
But it’s too late.

It’s a warning shot only, but it gets through. The collar sends white-hot electricity pulsing through Clarke’s body and she drops to the floor. She knows how they work, by now, she knows this is the low setting, just a few seconds, just to remind her trembling body what it feels like. Remind them both that he could kill them with the flick of a switch, and feel nothing.  
  
_Breathe,_ she orders herself shakily, planting both palms on the cold metal floor and pushing herself back upright to a seated position, still blocking her mother from McCreary with her body. _Breathe. We just have to get through this._  
  
“Take off your clothes,” McCreary says again to Abby. “And stand up, so I can see what I’m getting.”  
  
“Don’t,” Clarke says again, but pleading this time, not attacking, trying a new tactic. Maybe he’ll respond well to negotiation. Maybe there’s something else she can offer. “Please, please don’t hurt her. She’s already been through so much. You can have me, instead. I won’t fight you. I’ll let you do it.”  
  
“Clarke, baby, no,” whispers Abby, struggling to her feet to stand in front of McCreary, shoulders back, head high. She’s doing her best not to look afraid. “It’s okay. I can take it.” She arches an eyebrow at McCreary with something like the ghost of a smile. “I’ve had worse,” she says dryly, and even though both of them know the second the words are out of her mouth that it’s going to be _her_ shock collar next, if she’s not careful, Clarke is so proud to be her daughter right now that she can feel her heart swelling inside her chest.  
  
If Paxton McCreary thinks he can break a Griffin with a little bit of physical torture, he’s out of his damn mind.  
  
McCreary himself seems to have realized this. He doesn’t shock Abby for that retort – seems, in fact, weirdly amused by it – but he looks from mother to daughter and back again as though reevaluating his plan.

“Now, where’s the fun in this?” he drawls, eyeing them both skeptically. “’No, no, take me instead!’ ‘No, not her, take me!’ What’s the fucking _point_ of it, then?” He sits forward, leaning in closer, and Clarke can’t help but be drawn in. “That’s no good to me,” he explains, as calmly as though they’re discussing the weather. “You’re willing to let me fuck you to keep me from fucking your daughter –"  
  
“From _raping_ my daughter,” says Abby coolly. “Let’s call things by their proper names, shall we?”  
  
“And you,” he looks at Clarke, ignoring Abby altogether, “are willing to let me fuck you to keep me from fucking your mom. Either way, at least one of you gets what she wants, see, and that’s no good to me. Either way, one of you gets to protect the other one.” He shakes his head. “No, we’re not doing that,” he says. “Because _both_ of you screwed with me. So both of you need to pay.” He sets the shock collar transmitter down on his lap and holds up both hands. “I’m not going to lay a finger on either one of you, and that’s a promise,” he tells them, as though a new plan is forming. “That way is too easy. You were both so ready to be resigned to it. You’d have given right in, without a struggle. It would be like fucking a dead body. I can’t get off to that. I can’t let you _win_.”  
  
“Not having to fuck you, or watch you fuck my daughter, is already a win,” says Abby, still unflappable, “so I can’t imagine what you have up your sleeves that’s worse.”  
  
“No,” says McCreary dryly. “You know what, I think you’re right, for once. You would never let yourself imagine _this_ at all.”  
  
Something in his voice makes Clarke’s blood run cold, and for the first time, she’s genuinely afraid.

 _“I’m_ not going to do anything to you,” he repeats again, leaning back in his chair, arms folded. He isn’t touching the shock collar transmitter, but neither of them are fooled. They’re too far away to make a lunge for it before he can flip the switch. He’s baiting them, taunting them, leading them into some kind of trap. _“You’re_ going to do it.”  
  
Clarke gets there first, nausea rising in her stomach, while Abby’s brow is still furrowed in confusion.

“Not a chance,” she hisses at him. “You _monster._ You disgust me. You’re _sick.”_  
  
McCreary isn’t fazed by it. “Up to you, Clarke,” he says lightly. “Either you fuck her and I watch, or I fuck her and you watch.” He looks Abby up and down. “And I’m not gentle,” he adds, with a touch of amusement Clarke finds chilling.  
  
Abby has gone white and still, eyes wide. She can’t even move. Can’t look at Clarke. Can hardly breathe. “No,” she finally manages to choke out. “No, please. You can have me. You can have me, just not that. Anything but that.”  
  
McCreary chuckles. “Why don’t I give you two a minute to talk this out between you,” he says, rising to his feet. “Seems to be kind of a difference of opinion here. I’ll be back in five minutes and if I don’t see what I want to see –" he tosses the shock collar transmitter casually into the air and catches it again –“we’ll be testing this out on a higher setting. So you’d better decide quick.”  
  
The door clangs shut behind him, but they can still hear him chuckling as his boots clomp away.  
  
Clarke seizes her mother by the shoulders and turns her around urgently. “Mom, _listen_ to me,” she demands. “He’ll _hurt_ you. You have bruises on your arms, and that was just from bringing you onto the ship. He won’t be gentle, he’ll _want_ to make it painful. I can’t let you go through that for me.”  
  
“I can handle pain, baby,” says Abby, cradling Clarke’s face gently in her hands. “I’m not afraid of that.  I’ve been through worse. You got me through worse. I’ll be okay.”  
  
“No, you won’t,” Clarke whispers. “He wants to _break_ us, Mom, it’s not about sex. He’ll find a way to make you suffer. I can’t let him do that to you, I can’t, I can’t let him put his hands on you . . .”  
  
“We don’t have a choice,” Abby tells her heavily. “I won’t let him lay a hand on you either.”  
  
“I know,” says Clarke. “I know you won’t. But we don’t have to. He gave us another way out.”  
  
Abby recoils instantly, hands dropping from Clarke’s face, covering her own mouth in shocked horror. “Baby, don’t you see,” she whispers, shaking her head wildly, “that’s so much worse. That’s why he said it. Pain, we could endure, but _that_ – every time we ever even _looked_ at each other again, we’d see it. I can’t live with that.”  
  
“I don’t want to either,” Clarke says helplessly, fighting down the same waves of revulsion she can see rippling across her mother’s face, “but that way we know it won’t hurt. And we can . . .” She halts, flushes a little. “I mean, with a man, you can’t fake it,” she goes on hesitantly. “He’s finished when he’s finished. “But if it’s us, we can, I mean –“  
  
“It might be over more quickly,” Abby completes the thought for her. “Go through the motions, fake the ending, give him what he wants.”  
  
Clarke nods. “I’m not saying it wouldn’t be awful,” she confesses, “or that the thought doesn’t make me feel a little bit sick. But I think . . . I think I can – shut down, enough, at least for a few minutes. I think – I think maybe I could do it. If it meant McCreary wouldn’t touch you.”  
  
Abby looks away, staring down at the floor. “I don’t know,” she whispers, “Clarke, honey, I don’t know if I can. I’ve never – I don’t even know how. And it would be _you,_ every time I look at you I’d _see_ it, and I don’t . . . I don’t . . .”  
  
“Mom, _please,”_ Clarke insists, an edge of desperation in her voice. “I’m begging you. Please don’t make me watch. I honestly don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself, once he hurts you. And he _will_ hurt you. I can’t just sit by and watch it happen. And I know you couldn’t either.”  
  
The silence that follows is horrible. There’s nothing to say to this. They both know, but neither one of them can be the first to say it.  
  
_There’s no other way out._  
  
“Fine,” Abby finally says, voice empty and desolate. “Let’s get it over with.”

They strip with brisk, military efficiency, unable to look at each other, grateful for the distraction of folding clothes and unlacing boots. McCreary’s gone longer than five minutes, it seems, though neither of them has any real idea how long it’s been. Every second feels like an eternity. But he’s gone long enough to allow them to move their clothes over to one of the four cold iron benches built into the wall that serves as bunks for prisoners, and pull all the pillows and blankets off to create something at least vaguely resembling a bed.  
  
“How is it?” Abby asks as Clarke sits down on the floor, reclining back gingerly against the thin layers of fabric that serve as a buffer between her body and the cold iron.  
  
“I’ve had worse beds,” she says dryly, and Abby laughs.  
  
“I bet we both have,” she agrees. “Never thought I’d miss our beds on the Ark until we landed on earth and had to sleep on rocks and dirt and sticks.”  
  
It helps. A flicker of humor, normalcy. Shared memories. They’re not thinking about the thing that’s about to happen, they’re not looking at each other’s naked bodies. They’re still themselves.  
  
Then the door opens again.  
  
Of course, they both realize, there are cameras hidden around the room. It’s a damn jail cell. Of course he was watching. Of course he waited until the moment it seemed like everything might possibly, just possibly, be okay, and entered just them in order to ruin it.  
  
“Nice,” he says, eyeing the bed on the floor. “I like that you’re getting into this.”  
  
“We’re doing what you asked us to do, McCreary,” says Abby, lowering herself to the floor beside Clarke. “No one’s getting into it except you.”  
  
McCreary shakes his head. “Oh, I don’t think so,” he says. “See, if you aren’t getting into it, I might have to find a way to – shall we say – increase your sense of urgency.” He holds up the transmitter in his hand. “I really don’t want to have to use this,” he tells them, almost apologetically. “I find it kills the mood. But I will, if I think you’re holding out on me.”  
  
“Just tell us what you want,” Clarke snaps.  
  
“Kiss her,” McCreary orders. “And don’t fake it. Put your tongue in her mouth. Put your hands all over her body. Kiss her until she’s wet, and then show me to prove it.”  
  
Clarke’s blood goes cold, and she meets her mother’s eyes with something like panic.  
  
He’s not going to let them out of this so easily. He’s not going to let them fake anything.  
  
“Clarke, you don’t have to,” Abby whispers, stroking her hair, “it’s okay. “I can let him –"  
  
“No.”  
  
“It might be easier than –"  
  
“Mom, _no._ Please.”  
  
There’s a long silence. They look at each other, both trembling.  
  
_I’m doing this to protect you,_ Abby says to herself, as she looks at her daughter.  
  
_I’m doing this to protect you,_ Clarke says to herself, as she looks at her mother, and then does what he told her to do. She takes her mother by the shoulders, lies her back down against the blankets, curls up protectively into her body the way she used to do as a child, and takes a deep breath to steel herself.  
  
“Are you ready?” she whispers, and Abby nods, tears shining at the corners of her eyes.  
  
“I’m so sorry, baby,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you from this.”  
  
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Clarke whispers back fiercely, _“none_ of this is your fault.”  
  
“If I had been stronger –"  
  
“No. _No._ You did the best you could, Mom, you always do. It’s okay. We’re gonna be okay.”  
  
Abby nods, shakily, looking up at her daughter from the thin bed of prison blankets, and then Clarke bends over and presses her mouth against her mother’s.

She tries.  
  
She really, really does.  
  
She _likes_ kissing women, she’s always liked kissing women, she tries so hard to close her eyes and pretend like she’s kissing any woman in the whole world who isn’t her mother. She tries and tries and tries.  
  
But the smell of her mom’s hair and skin, the sound of her breathing, it’s so intimately familiar to Clarke, she knows this body as well as she knows her own, and she can’t forget. It’s _awful,_ at first. She’s braced on her elbow, leaning down over Abby’s body, but her hands are shaking so badly that her arm gives out, and as Abby opens her mouth to let Clarke’s tongue inside they both choke a little, resisting it.  
  
McCreary gives an exasperated sigh and kicks Abby’s shoulder with the toe of his boot. “You’re not even _trying,”_ he grumbles. “Don’t make me shock your daughter again, Abby. At least give her something to work with.”  
  
Clarke feels tears sting her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mom,” she whispers. Abby sits up, pulling Clarke into her arms, and holds her against her chest for a moment, stroking her daughter’s hair, tracing her fingers over the bare vertebrae of her spine, soothing her. She meets McCreary’s eyes over the girl’s blonde head, daring him to stop her, but he doesn’t, just watches and waits.  
  
“Come here, honey,” says Abby, “it’s okay. We can do this.” Then she takes a deep breath, presses her eyes closed, and her mouth brushes against Clarke’s once more.  
  
This time, it’s different. Clarke’s not trying to pretend like her mom’s not her mom. Abby’s hands are still gentle and soothing on her skin, the way they always have been. Abby’s arms mean comfort and safety and love, more than anything else in the world, a love so vast the entire sky couldn’t hold it, and Clarke lets go and lets herself be loved.  
  
They go to another place in their minds, somewhere that everything is made out of love. They love each other so much that they would rather do this, risk this, endure this, than allow McCreary to lay a hand on the other. They love each other so much that there’s no recrimination or blame. They’re saying it silently over and over again with every touch.  
  
_I love you.  
  
It’s going to be okay.  
  
We can do this.  
  
I’ve got you. I love you. I’m here._  
  
This time, when their mouths part, tongues brushing against each other, it’s guided by love instead of revulsion and panic, so their bodies don’t instinctively rebel against it like they did the first time. Clarke lowers Abby down onto her back again, and settles in against her, and they live like that for a long, long time, lost in that other place, where there’s no McCreary and everything is okay, wrapped in each other’s arms.  
  
It feels good to be kissed. There’s been nobody in six years. It feels good to be held. It feels good to be loved. She’s left her body, she’s not in the Eligius IV brig anymore, she’s just warm and soft and safe.  
  
Then, “spread her legs, and show me,” says McCreary, jolting them violently back to earth, and Clarke pulls away to see Abby, flushed and breathless, lying below her, and remembers exactly where she is.  
  
Clarke freezes.  
  
“I won’t ask nicely again,” he advises them, leaning forward and regarding them with keen eyes, hand on the trigger. So Clarke reaches down with trembling fingers to find her mother’s parted thighs, thatched with a triangle of soft brown fur, and follows the warmth lower and lower until she brushes pulsing flesh so soft and wet that it feels like the inside of a piece of ripe fruit split open.  
  
“Oh God,” whispers Clarke, swallowing hard, as she meets her mother’s wide dark eyes and realizes that her own thighs are sticky and damp, too.  
  
_Goddamn you, Paxton McCreary,_ she thinks. _I hope you rot in hell for this._

“That’s good,” he tells her. “Keep your hand right there, Clarke. And make her come.”  
  
“Okay,” says Clarke, trying to keep her voice steady, trying to signal to her mother that this will all be over much more quickly if she fakes it along, but McCreary pulls his chair up closer and his eyes, laser-focused on the wetness between Abby’s thighs, miss nothing.  
  
“If I think it’s fake,” he says casually, “you’ll both get the collar. On a higher setting every time you try it. So I wouldn’t try it.”  
  
_Dammit._  
  
“Make your mom come, Clarke,” he says, finger still poised over the shock collar’s trigger. “And make her _like_ it.”  
  
Abby’s body is tense as a bowstring as her daughter's trembling fingers move through the wetness, and she jolts so abruptly at the first touch of her clit that for a desperate, panicked moment Clarke thinks he’s used the collar anyway. But no, she’s okay, she’s just sensitive there, the way Clarke is, and startled by the sensation.  
  
Clarke doesn’t want to wonder, but does anyway, how long it’s been for her mother. She and Kane were together for six years in the bunker, and she suspected it might even have begun before then. It’s none of her business, she’s never asked, never wanted to know. But Abby got sicker and sicker, after she came to Eden, after Diyoza and McCreary realized they could use the pills as leverage, and then Kane left before she finally got clean, and hasn't come back. She wonders if the physical suffering of those past few weeks shut down any feelings of desire. She wonders how long it’s been since Abby’s body felt any sensation that wasn’t numbness or pain.  
  
Maybe, in its own fucked-up way, this could help. If nothing else, to remind Abby that her body is still alive, and McCreary didn’t take that from her. He can’t. She’s too strong. She can fight her way through anything.  
  
Her hands go on autopilot, she knows how to do this, she knows exactly how she likes it best, she’s been doing this to herself for six years, and in the absence of more thorough instruction she just strokes her mom’s clit the way she would if it was her own. Tight concentric circles around the outside, to tease it into swelling, then pinching it lightly between thumb and forefinger and rubbing it gently.  
  
“Oh, yes, right there,” Abby whispers, almost involuntarily, startling herself as much as Clarke, as they experience the simultaneous, uncomfortable realization that they probably masturbate exactly the same way.  
  
“Interesting,” says McCreary wryly. “Runs in the family, I guess.”  
  
“The commentary isn’t helpful,” says Clarke, gritting her teeth and resisting the urge to knock over his chair and step on his throat.  
  
“How does it feel, to know your mom likes being touched the same way you do?” McCreary asks. “Wonder if she likes being licked the same way, too.”  
  
Clarke’s head snaps up, and she stares at him. This, she didn’t expect. She could just, just barely coax herself into the idea of hands, but –  
  
“McCreary, don’t make her do that,” Abby whispers, shaking her head, but he’s having fun now, he’s found the line they don’t want to cross so of course it’s all he wants, and he hasn’t taken his finger off the trigger.  
  
“Your choice,” he shrugs, “you can have an orgasm or you can have a shock, it’s all the same to me.”  
  
“Baby, no,” Abby starts to say, but she can’t let him hurt her mother, so she parts Abby’s thighs and slowly, slowly, lowers her blonde head between them.

Clarke tasted herself once, on Niylah’s fingers, and she is disoriented beyond belief to realize that her mother tastes more like she does than any of the other women she’s been with. She feels like she’s tasting herself.  
  
Abby’s thighs are trembling, and Clarke doesn’t need to hear her say it out loud to understand that there’s a war going on inside her, a violent clash between the physical sensations she doesn’t want to give into, and the inescapable knowledge of who is giving them to her. Abby knows she has to let herself come, or McCreary will use the collar on one of them, but she can’t let go. She’s holding herself tightly in control, hissing as though Clarke’s touch burns her every time her tongue makes contact with skin.  
  
This isn’t going to work.  
  
_Just let go, Mom, don’t fight it,_ she tells her in her mind, rubbing her palms soothingly up and down Abby’s clenched thigh muscles, trying to help her relax. She licks a broad stripe up the center of Abby’s folds, then parts the labia and takes the bud of her clit between her lips. Abby’s back arches slightly, she can’t help it, and McCreary makes a small pleased sound, like he’s finally getting the show he wants.  
  
Well, good, then. If this keeps him happy and his hand off the trigger, so be it.  
  
Clarke remembers a trick Niylah taught her – nudging ever so slightly with her tongue just underneath the hood of the clit. When she tried it the first time they slept together, Clarke came so hard she saw stars. She’d never felt anything like it before.  
  
_Let go, Mom,_ she thinks again, and tries Niylah’s move.  
  
They’re both _stunned_ by the result.  
  
_“Oh!”_ Abby cries out breathlessly, hips lifting all the way off the floor, as one hand reflexively comes to the back of Clarke’s head to hold her there, pleading for more.  
  
McCreary chuckles, bringing them both back to themselves, and they freeze for a moment, unable to look at each other – Clarke unable to believe how hard she was trying to make her mother come, Abby unable to believe she was within an inch of whispering the words, _“don’t stop.”_  
  
“Looks like you found the magic spot,” he says easily. “I’d stay there if I were you. She seems to like it.”  
  
“Go fuck yourself,” Abby mutters, but McCreary isn’t even fazed. He can see the flush spreading across her skin, the sheen on the inside of her thighs, the rough rapid tremor of her breathing. She can say whatever the hell she wants to him; he knows he has the upper hand now.  
  
“Get back to work,” he tells Clarke, gesturing towards Abby’s cunt with the trigger in his hand. “You’re getting close, I’d say. She’s starting to sweat.”  
  
“It’ll be over soon,” Clarke mouths to her mother, with a reassuring smile, as Abby bites her lip and nods. Then she lowers her head and returns to the same spot as before.  
  
Abby’s cunt is warm and musky and sweet, and it pulses beneath Clarke’s tongue, and she doesn’t want to lose herself, but she finds she can’t help it. Her urgency to make Abby come begins as the simple desire to _end_ this, to free them, but it’s also wrapped up in the desire to give her mother something to feel, and then the longer she sets about it the more she disappears into the sheer pleasure of giving pleasure to someone else. Abby’s breath is coming in soft little gasps now, and she’s stroking Clarke’s hair with tender, encouraging hands, and her hips are lifting up and up, and Clarke doesn’t know what makes her do it except instinct, but she lifts her hand and slides two fingers inside her mother’s cunt and hooks them forward to press expertly against Abby’s G-spot and then there’s nothing but wetness and gasping and hot flushed skin as Abby comes with a wild little cry against her daughter’s hand.

“Again,” says McCreary, sardonic voice slicing through the warm silence. “Her tits get all flushed when she comes, so now I know what to watch for. Wonder if yours do too, Clarke,” he muses almost absently. “We’ll check that next.”  
  
“I gave you what you wanted,” Clarke whispers, eyes pressed tightly closed, unable to look at him. “Why do you want more? We did it, we let you watch, it’s over now. That was the deal.”  
  
“You’d be terrible at my job,” says McCreary with genuine amusement, as though the whole sordid, traumatizing ordeal is the most delightful entertainment to him. “If I just wanted to watch two women fuck, I’d make two women fuck. That’s not the point of this.”  
  
“Then what is the point?”  
  
“The point,” he says agreeably, “is that you just ate out your mom, and you liked it, and you want to do it again, and so does she, and you both get to live with that for the rest of your lives.”  
  
There is no possible response to this. Both women feel the hot sting of tears, the ache of nausea in their chests and throat.  
  
Because _he isn’t wrong._  
  
When he kicks Clarke with the toe of his boot again, prodding her to get back to it, there’s a part of her – a dark, wicked, sick part of her – that feels a savage kick of excitement low in her belly.  
  
She _did_ like it.  
  
She does want to do it again.  
  
She hates herself for it.  
  
_I’m sorry, Mom,_ she whispers in her mind over and over again, as she begins to lose herself, nuzzling deeper and deeper, hot wetness coating her lips and tongue, mingling with the tears cascading down her cheeks. If she does it right, maybe he’ll be satisfied, and let them stop.  
  
She tells herself that’s what she’s trying for – to give her mom an orgasm that will satisfy McCreary’s sadistic desire – but that’s only a piece of it. What’s underneath is much simpler than that. It’s the pure desire to make someone she loves feel good.  
  
She licks and sucks and kisses the warm, soaking wet cunt, feeling her mother’s body start to tremble, and she knows Abby is losing herself too when her hand begins to fist Clarke’s hair. “That’s so good, baby,” she whispers hoarsely, and the sound sends a shudder through Clarke’s entire body. “Right there. Stay right there. So good.”  
  
Every once in awhile, when Clarke was little, she woke in the middle of the night to the sound of thumping and panting and gasping from the other side of the thin wall that Mom and Dad’s bedroom shared with hers. She knows these sounds, though obviously she never imagined they would be for her. But they’re familiar, even comforting in a twisted way; this is real pleasure, not feigned. She’s doing it right. She’s making her mom feel good.  
  
“Honey, I’m gonna come,” Abby whispers, clutching Clarke’s hair tighter, and by now they’ve both completely forgotten McCreary. “I’m so close, right there, don’t stop . . . oh God, don’t stop, don’t stop . . . “  
  
Clarke doesn’t stop, she just plunges in deeper, fingers pumping in and out of Abby’s hot, clenching cunt as her tongue swirls desperately around the hard little bud of her clit, and the ache in her own cunt is now so fierce it feels like pain. She moans as she drinks deeper and deeper, and when Abby comes again, her whole body writhes and shakes against the pile of thin blankets, her cries echoing off the metal walls.  
  
“Come here,” Abby says desperately, fingers clutching wildly at Clarke’s shoulders, pulling her up so their mouths can crash against each other, panting and sticky and urgent, and this time McCreary doesn’t have to tell them how to do it. He says nothing at all. They don’t even notice he’s there. Abby’s tongue sweeps into Clarke’s mouth, drinking up her own juices with hedonistic pleasure, hands running up and down her daughter’s body. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispers, as Clarke pulls away to kiss her way down her chest. “My beautiful baby girl.”  
  
“I love you so much,” Clarke murmurs, as her lips part, and then she takes Abby’s nipple inside her mouth.

 _“Fuck,”_ Abby gasps, clutching Clarke closer. “Oh, sweetheart, come here. Come here.” She cradles Clarke in her arms, holding her daughter to her breast like she did as a child, moaning in pleasure as Clarke’s lips and tongue suckle at the tight little nipple and lick circles around the pebbled flesh of her areola. “I always loved this feeling,” she whispers, and Clarke smiles against her breast, feeling their bodies melt together.  
  
When Abby’s hand slips down between her thighs, Clarke opens up eagerly, hungry for relief from the aching wetness flooding her. Abby's touch is gentle, soothing, one hand stroking her daughter's hair as she sucks her mother’s sweet pink nipple, the other petting lightly at the pale golden hair of her cunt. It takes so little to make Clarke come the first time, she’s been desperate for so long; Abby’s deft surgeon’s fingers find their way unerringly to the most sensitive spot, the very tip of her throbbing clit, and rub tight little circles around it until Clarke shudders and convulses and sobs with pleasure against the white swell of flesh filling her mouth.  
  
Spent, sated, Clarke collapses against her mother’s chest, and lets Abby pull her close, kissing her hair, rocking her, cradling her. They sit like that for a long, long time, lost in pleasure, everything else forgotten.  
  
Then, “I want to watch _you_ eat _her_ out now,” says McCreary’s voice from the corner, jolting them back to reality, to the realization of what they’ve done. “Clarke, get on your back. Spread your legs for your mama.”  
  
Abby lets go of Clarke abruptly, shrinking away, like her touch suddenly pains her. “I can’t do that,” she whispers. “I can’t. Isn’t this enough? Haven’t you broken us enough?”  
  
“You’ve never tasted a woman’s cunt before, have you, Doc?” says McCreary, with great interest. “I want the first one to be hers.”  
  
“I don’t know how,” Abby confesses softly, eyes staring down at the floor, shrinking into herself like all she wants to do is escape. “I can’t. I can’t.”  
  
“It’s that, or I flip this switch on Clarke,” he says casually. “Up to you. But I bet I know which one Clarke would prefer.”  
  
“You’re an asshole, McCreary,” Clarke snaps, hating herself for the way she can feel her cunt pulsing eagerly at the thought of a second orgasm, the way her body has entirely abandoned the ability to be governed by her conscience or mind.  
  
“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, picking up the transmitter, but Abby stops him with a desperate cry.  
  
“I’ll do it!” she pleads hoarsely. “I’ll do it, I’ll do it, just put the transmitter down. Please.”  
  
“It’s gonna be okay,” Clarke mouths to her, trying for a comforting smile, as she lies back against the thin blankets, obediently spreading her legs, feeling the cool air of the brig rush over her skin, closing her eyes as she feels her mother shift her weight and move to the other side of their makeshift bed.  
  
Her hands grip Clarke’s thighs, and Clarke can feel them trembling. Her mother is terrified. Clarke lets her own hands rest over Abby’s, stroking them reassuringly, trying to soothe her. This is what McCreary wants, he wants to watch Abby break, so Abby has to give that to him, but the least Clarke can do is keep her anchored, remind her that she isn’t alone. There’s solidarity in the brush of her fingertips on the back of Abby’s hands, and forgiveness, and love, and as much reassurance as she can muster.  
  
_It’s going to be okay,_ she tries to tell her wordlessly. _We’re gonna be okay._  
  
Then Abby lowers her head and presses a light, trembling, hesitant kiss on Clarke’s pulsing clit, and McCreary disappears again. “That’s good,” she whispers roughly. “Don’t stop.” She clutches her mother’s hands tightly in her own. “Kiss me like that again.”

Abby’s kisses are hesitant, uncertain, tentative, like she’s not quite sure of herself, but her instincts are unerringly precise, and Clarke can’t keep herself from wondering how often Mom has had this done to her. Did Dad do it? Does Kane? Which of them was so good at it that she somehow learned, without even realizing she’d learned it, exactly what sensitive places to touch? Or maybe it’s years of medical training, maybe it’s her encyclopedic knowledge of the human body. Either way, she does everything right, but she’s so tremulous and shy about it that it’s clear she doesn’t trust herself.  
  
Clarke’s not used to this, having to be the one to reassure her mother, but she finds she doesn’t mind it. Abby responds well to gentle pressure on the back of her head, holding her in place when she finds a good spot; Clarke runs her fingers through her mother’s tangled hair, caressing those threads of silvery-gray, and murmurs words of encouragement to urge her on.  
  
Abby’s tongue is as precise and deft as her surgeon’s hands, and with the release of the addiction from her body, both are steady again, as skilled as ever. Clarke imagines this tongue licking up the underside of a thick, pulsing dick, and shudders with pleasure at the thought. She wonders how many times that happened on the other side of her bedroom wall, with her father biting his lip to keep from crying out, and how many times he repaid the favor, unwittingly teaching Abby exactly how to lick a cunt to elicit maximum pleasure.  
  
Clarke’s only frustration is that she knows this won’t be enough to sate her, not this soft, fluttering, delicate, almost tortuously gentle wave of sensation. She needs something harder, she needs Abby inside her, but she can’t ask. Not yet.  
  
But God, even if it’s not enough, it’s _so good,_ so fucking good, and she finds herself melting into a dreamy, dazed state where she loses all track of time. Everything dissolves away except soft little kitten licks at the entrance to her cunt and gentle kisses on her clit and the lazy swirl of a hot tongue drinking up the juices flowing out of her and the vibrations of Abby’s soft _“mmm”_ sounds of pleasure as she settles in.  
  
The first orgasm comes on so slowly that Clarke can feel it building from a long, long way off, pressure rising from her very bones, but no matter how urgently she bucks her hips or fists Abby’s hair, Abby maintains the same languid, delicate pressure. “Mom, _please,”_ she chokes out through gasping breaths, “I need more, I need, I want, I need –"  
  
But Abby doesn’t oblige her, and when the orgasm finally erupts and breaks over her, leaving her shivering, she’s immediately hungry again. “Mom, _please,”_ she repeats desperately, clutching at Abby’s hair, pulling her up to kiss her mouth, to let her mother’s body blanket hers, and then – only then – does Abby give her exactly what she wants.  
_  
“Fuck!”_ Clarke cries out as a hand slips down between her thighs and three fingers plunge in _deep,_ curling upward, filling her soaked cunt and stretching her open. She reciprocates in kind, reaching up between Abby’s legs and filling her with the same three fingers. Abby’s eyes widen, and she leans down to rest her forehead on her daughter’s. “Fuck me, Mom,” Clarke begs her, tears of pleasure stinging the corner of her eyes as she revels in the bliss of finally, _finally_ being filled up, and Abby does, they both do, hands pumping in tandem, breath hot and fierce on each other’s skin. They don’t kiss anymore, they just watch, lost in it, each utterly dumbstruck by the beauty of the other. Flushed cheeks, tangled hair, damp skin, low, panting gasps. Abby’s other hand comes up to cradle her daughter’s face as she fucks her harder and harder; Clarke can feel the hard little peaks of their nipples crashing together, slick with sweat.  
  
“I love you so much,” Abby murmurs, as her cunt tightens around Clarke’s busy fingers. “In all my life I’ll never love anyone the way I love you.”  
  
“I love you, Mom,” Clarke gasps. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

She’s still murmuring the words when she comes, and this time it’s the hard, forceful orgasm she wanted, rocketing through her so hard she can feel her teeth rattle, her moan rising into something more like a scream. Abby gasps at the sensation of feeling Clarke come on her hand, the ferocious clench and release of her cunt, and withdraws her fingers so they can lick them clean together as Clarke adds a fourth, then a fifth finger and pushes up inside her mother up to the wrist, causing Abby’s entire body to convulse in wild, desperate pleasure. Abby comes almost immediately, after that, so hard that her body collapses into a limp, trembling heap on top of Clarke’s, and they shudder into stillness together.  
  
They’ve forgotten McCreary is even there until he rises wordlessly from his chair, gives the ghost of a dry little chuckle, and makes his way over to the door. “See, now, you made my job easy,” he says, and as the real world slowly returns to them, harsh and cold and terrifying, they huddle together, averting their eyes both from him and from each other. “It would have been a hell of a lot of fun to fuck you, Abby, but I’d much rather have you live with knowing that you just had one of the best fucks of your life with your daughter.”  
  
Abby doesn’t say anything, face buried in the curtain of her tangled hair, her flushed, naked body pressed against Clarke’s, still too shattered to move. Clarke wraps her arms around her protectively, stroking her back as they hear the brig’s door open and then slam shut as his footsteps disappear down the hall.  
  
“It’s gonna be okay,” Clarke whispers to Abby, with more assurance than she feels, running a warm, comforting hand up and down her mother’s spine. “I promise. We’re gonna be okay.”


End file.
